No Moment of Sweetness Lost

One evening in the mountains of New Hampshire, my mother and I kiss each other good night.

We are in a lodge for the weekend, sharing a big open room with others. People are settling into their beds, one woman reads by lamplight in the corner.

The weekend unfolds. Snow falls. The sun rises, sets, rises.

The final day, we load the car. We eat soup, take in the mountain view one last time, say our goodbyes.

And the woman who was reading by lamplight in the corner tells me something: That first evening, I saw you and your mother kiss each other goodnight, she says. It was so sweet. I carried it with me all weekend.

And I am surprised by how much this moves me. I had no idea our little moment of love had touched another.

I hug the woman. I hope to see you again, I say.

My mother and I begin the drive out of the New Hampshire mountains. I take with me the view, the aftertaste of soup, an understanding that I've underestimated the power of sweetness. And I start to think that even though we can't always prove it, no moment of sweetness is lost to the world.

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